


Like Fine Wine

by barrelrider



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not quite happy but not quite sad, Old Age, Retirementlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2461307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barrelrider/pseuds/barrelrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gazes out at his garden, colourful and vibrant and very bee-friendly, at Sherlock's insistence. John loves it. Sherlock loves it. The bees love it. John hates the bees. Sherlock loves the bees. John loves Sherlock. And Sherlock loves John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Fine Wine

In the early autumn morning light, John awakens with a chill on his nose and an ache in his joints. It is as it ever is, though. He's getting used to growing brittle now but he does remember when he didn't wince just from swinging his legs over the side of the bed - or when he could do it at all. Now, he moves gingerly, pushing himself up before sliding his legs to the side. He sighs when his back pops three times all along his spine. Sits for a few minutes, blinking bleariness from his still-bright eyes. Then stands, slowly, carefully, hunched like an old man then straight like a soldier, and he heads to the loo to wash his face.

He's old now. He's been telling himself he's old since he was 42, when two teenagers called him 'mister' instead of 'sir'. When he returns to the cane at 55 - a bad fall, sudden and sharp and mid-chase in front of police officers and his husband - he gets asked if he needs help, if he knows where he's going, if strangers can get his bags. He'd snap at them sometimes, and storm home in a tizzy. Sherlock let him rant and rave, half-heartedly listening, before he'd stand, approach John, seat him, massage his hands, and talk about a dead crow he found that morning and may have possibly put in the freezer. It always distracted John, and made him laugh, and made him worried that there's a dead bird in the house, and made his hands not hurt as much.

Now, at 66, there's no denying it, no snapping at people that he's only such an age. He's 66. He's old. His hair - thank God he still has it - is grey and speckled with silver. He has age spots and wrinkles. He grudgingly wears thick, horned glasses that make his eyes look slightly bigger (and make him sexier, according to Sherlock). They're trifocals. His vision is shit and his hip and knee hurt. There are creaks and moans and cracks where there simply shouldn't be when he sits on the toilet, and even more when he struggles to get up. He's losing his taste and smell. He can't tell if Sherlock's skin has really changed that much or if his sense of touch is going, too. He likes to pretend it's Sherlock's fault. The idea that he can't feel him the same way he could twenty-five years ago is a damn tragedy.

He likes to blame Sherlock for a lot of his aging, really. He says Sherlock took all his hair colour (he still, still has tiny streaks of black in his dark greys, and has a glorious, full head of hair, but John would love him white or bald if it meant having him to love at all). Says he's taken his height, his nimbleness, his blood vessels, his nervous system, the marrow in his blood and the cells of his bones. Because Sherlock still stands tall. He aches, of course he does, but John thinks he's either excellent at hiding it or simply doesn't ache as much. Sherlock can still differentiate spices, if and when he eats. He's even got less wrinkles and only needs readers for fine print. He's aged finely and is still ripe at 62. John would still love him even if Sherlock was as soft and droopy and old as he is himself.

But even Sherlock isn’t immune to the sting of time. His hands shake sometimes. Badly in the cold, and when he works too much, or sometimes when he doesn’t work enough. Sometimes, he forgets what he's doing. They both do, and John's afraid one day they'll both forget what they're doing and it will be something serious and they'll both be scared and helpless. With Sherlock, it’s worse when it happens. He’ll cut tomatoes one second and five seconds later won’t remember what he’s doing or why. His weathered skin is drier than John’s, too. He likes it when John puts body butter on his shoulders and his arms, which are still toned from three years of beekeeping and lifting trays of yellow stinging bastards. John can see the beginning of a cataract in Sherlock's right eye. So can their shared optometrist. Sherlock either can't see it, or won't see it. He sleeps hard, nowadays, and sometimes John panics when he sees him just barely breathing at night.

John reminds himself that despite their ailments, their aches and their pains, neither of them need Viagra and their sex life is blossoming. The thought of that makes him smile proudly in front of the mirror. They have no elderly friend to compare to, but he's always considered their relationship unusual and extraordinary, and he continues to do so, given their sexual appetites in their 60s. He hums contentedly, washes his face until there's colour in his cheeks again, pops on his glasses with not as much of a fight, and carries on with his day.

He wears the same things he’s worn for years. Jeans, jumpers, cardigans, comfortable shoes. He layers more with button-downs, and his jumpers are thicker. Sometimes in winter, he wears thermal underwear under the denim just to keep warm. His socks are thick, which doesn't help the slight inflammation at day's end. He keeps jackets close. He dresses slowly, carefully, and pulls on slippers. They have no plans for the day. He doesn't have to struggle with shoes. It's a little victory. He doesn't feel victorious.

The cottage is two storeys. The stairs, an almighty eight of them, are thankfully short, and there's a railing at the ready. It doesn't mean falls haven't happened and the bruises haven't been spectacular. It doesn't mean Sherlock has shouted for help from the ground and John has come running in from the garden, cane abandoned and joints screaming. It doesn't mean slips on the hardwood (John is seriously considering carpeting, but God, is that harder to clean), and shouts of surprise, and racing hearts in aged chests. But it's nice to have nevertheless. During Christmas, it's lovely with tinsel. Sherlock scowls a lovely scowl that's three Christmases old, one John hopes he never has a Christmas without.

He heads to the immaculately clean kitchen and starts the kettle. He convinces himself to eat an apple, and sighs when he knows it entails cutting it into slices. It's annoying because he can't eat a fucking apple whole, and he has to cut it, and the knives are hard to press down into the fruit, and he cut himself one time, deep, between his thumb and index finger, and didn't call for help, and tried to fix it himself, and when Sherlock came home from market he had to call an ambulance because John was pale and cold and still bleeding an hour later. He berated John when they got home from the hospital a few days after. He berated and yelled and ranted and paced, and John sat silently, touching the bandage on his hand and wondering how he let the knife slip in the first place. They held each other tight that night. John let Sherlock count his heartbeats. He understood. He understands.

He's distracted from his chore by the sight of a white-suited figure hauling a tray of thousands of bees as if it's a briefcase. There's a dog nearby, a handsome Irish Setter of two years and nine months, sleeping under the tree. Redbeard, he's called. Mycroft had had a hand in the name suggestion, and the breed suggestion as well. Sherlock's sixtieth birthday present; easily the best £595 John has ever spent. He smiles. The small, porthole window hadn’t been part of the cottage when they'd bought it. It had been his idea to have it installed, and for this very reason: to watch Sherlock work, to admire him from not-so-afar.

He also thought of the jetted bathtub. They both love the jetted bathtub. John likes to think his ideas have all been great. (They have been.)

There are a few things from Baker Street in the cottage, namely books, some decor, and their chairs. Neither man wanted to part with them, but getting them into the moving truck was truly an experience. They weren’t hurt, no, but John slipped on mud and fell face-first into it while pushing Sherlock’s chair up the ramp. Sherlock belched loudly when moving John’s, and John swore it was the first time he’d ever heard Sherlock make such a noise. Mud-soaked and feeling disgusting, John laughed so hard he cried. Beet-red and mortified, Sherlock stomped away and hit John with the small Union Flag pillow that John now rests against while he eats his apples and enjoys his tea. The fire is almost always going now. He kicks off his slippers to wriggle his toes by the flame. The apple slices are crunchy and sweet. He hears Redbeard barking, clearly awakened. Then, Sherlock says something to the dog. It doesn’t matter what it is. It doesn’t matter that John can’t hear it. It makes him smile anyway.

He brings a banana, a glass of orange juice, and two rectangular boxes outside, along with his tea. Vitamins and medicines are a chore they do together whenever they can. If one is sleeping longer than the other, then yes, the one awake does the task alone. But it’s something neither of them enjoy. It’s easier with two. It’s also something easily forgotten. Making it something they share, pleasant or not, makes it easier to remember.

Redbeard is the first to greet him. He perks up from his lounge and trots to John’s side, tail wagging and eyes inquisitive. John smiles and says, “Hullo, Redbeard,” in greeting, since his hands are otherwise occupied and pats are unavailable to give. The dog heads away when a butterfly catches his attention. John sits with a huff and a sigh in his outside lounge chair, patiently waiting. He sets the banana, the juice, and the blue box with ‘SH’ on it on Sherlock’s chair, of similar make and size except brown and not white, and reclined further back. It will take Sherlock three minutes to finish his current duty, so John closes his eyes for a moment. He regrets only wearing slippers; his feet are already cold in the crisp air. He should have brought a jacket. His nose is still cold. His hip is aching still; it will rain today. When he breathes, he’s congested, and so he makes a wheezing sound. His tea warms his throat and tastes faintly and familiarly like mint.

When he opens his eyes and squints through his glasses against the brightness, he sees Sherlock removing his helmet as he approaches. John smiles, warm and wide, and remarks, “Hi, handsome,” with a charming wink. Something warm flutters in his chest. It’s been there for twenty-five years, and it’s always been Sherlock who makes it appear.

“Flirting with me won’t make up for bringing me my pill box,” Sherlock grumbles, his face in a pout that John adores. He runs a gloved hand through his hair, pauses his trek to kiss John once, then gestures to the house. John nods in understanding and times him at a minute to get undressed and out of his keeper’s suit. He doesn’t close his eyes. Instead, he summons Redbeard, who happily complies and sits dutifully at his legs, his chin on John’s knee as John strokes the silky soft fur of his ear. The front door closes and John knows Sherlock has returned. So does the dog, who looks that way before nestling back against John. “You brought a banana too,” Sherlock grumbles with contempt. He  _hates_  bananas, and John knows it, but they help Sherlock’s potassium problem. The retired detective sinks into his chair with a wince John pretends not to notice.

“Happy Monday,” John cheers, lifting his tea. He pops open the ‘M’ box of his pills and deposits the seven some-odd tablets of different shape and function into his palm. Sherlock repeats him and grabs the orange juice. They share a look of dread before downing the tablets and their liquids. They give a simultaneous grimace and shudder, and put their drinks down at the same time. Redbeard yawns, lifts off John’s knee, and pads into the house from the side door, which has a dog door installed. “I brought you orange juice, though,” John mentions with a smile, nudging Sherlock’s foot. “Could have been just water.”

“Mm, you know me well,” Sherlock responds, raising his brows teasingly before peeling his banana (but not without a glare, as if it’s personally offended him). “I do apologise in advance for this, but look to your right,” Sherlock adds before taking the first frown-inducing bite.

John obeys the suggestion and likewise frowns. Sherlock’s brought out his cane, which he’s forgotten. John can’t tell which he detests more: the cane itself or his faulty memory of it. He sighs and mumbles a downhearted, “Thanks.” He feels Sherlock’s eyes boring into him and knows they’re soft and apologetic and worried, so he looks over and smiles, reassuring him. Sherlock doesn’t look convinced, but at least he stops staring so sadly. John gazes out at his garden, colourful and vibrant and very bee-friendly, at Sherlock's insistence. John loves it. Sherlock loves it. The bees love it. John hates the bees. Sherlock loves the bees. John loves Sherlock. And Sherlock loves John.

“How long have you been up?” he asks curiously. They share small talk, these days. Sherlock’s gotten much better at it. He doesn’t snap and wave his hands and leave for a four-hour walk because he just can’t take the suffocation anymore. John sometimes still guards and prepares his heart for if it happens again. He guards and prepares his heart for many things, these days, and none of them are good, and all of them feel inevitable.

“Eight, probably,” Sherlock replies with a shrug, sincerely not knowing or caring. He drinks his juice. John hums in response. They both look out over the yard. Their property is flanked by a small, metre-high stone wall, one side of a lane atop a hill overlooking the ocean. All they have to do is walk a ways down to the aged stairs to get to the sea. Getting down the stairs is easy. Getting up them is harder. They both have a silent fear of when they’ll lose the ocean, not by the fault of nature but of their own bones. They don’t often discuss the things they’re scared of because it seems like every time someone sleeps particularly deeply, or there’s a slip on the stairs, or they have a lapse in memory, the list of fears grows. They only talk about it once they’re truly scared. They hate it.

They’re silent, then, enjoying the soft buzz of the bees and the roar of the waves. John’s hand drapes over the side of his armrest. His fingers prod at Sherlock’s, which hangs similarly. They lace their fingers. It isn’t slow, it isn’t careful. It’s natural. It hurts, sometimes, when their knuckles are swollen and stiff, but right then, even with all the other aches and pains, it doesn’t hurt. Even when it does, all other pain is vanquished. Right then, nothing hurts, and once and again John feels like he’s 41 again, just learning to hold Sherlock’s hand for the first time after years of missed communication and missed opportunity and not quite meeting halfway.

The warmth in John’s chest spreads. He feels it in his cold nose. He feels it in the tips of his fingers, their touch waning but the gesture and the memory still strong. He feels it in his legs. In his toes. In his blood and marrow. He looks over at Sherlock with soft eyes. Sherlock catches his gaze and returns it. John’s heart skips a beat, and not from a delay in pulse. It occurs to him, as it ever does, that he would gladly spend the rest of his life with Sherlock, even if it’s to be filled with slow, careful, painful aging full of creaks and moans and cracks and fear and falls and forgetfulness.

“What is it?” Sherlock murmurs in a sagely tone, knowing John too well to think nothing of his sentiment.

“It’s one of Those Days,” John replies after a moment’s thought. “When I remember that I’m old, and I’m dying, and we’re dying.” It’s Sherlock who insists on facing the inevitable and calling it what it is. It still makes John uneasy to say, as if he’ll jinx them both into dying sooner; or worse, jinx one of them and not the other. He doesn’t linger on that. He can’t. With a breath, he continues. “It’s going to rain soon. You know how that goes.” Sherlock hums and nods, understanding the joint pain. His isn’t as debilitating at John’s. Sherlock makes a mental note to massage John’s shoulder that night as John presses on. “It wasn’t this bad when I was younger. I always thought back then that if I’m lucky, I’ll either be in some sort of home, well taken care of, or I wouldn’t be around for the time when my joints would ache. Those were my options.” He shrugs as if it’s nothing. Then, he gazes back at Sherlock and squeezes his hand. “Then, I found you,” is all he says, and it’s all that needs to be said because Sherlock’s lips curl up, and so do John’s, and they meet in the middle when they go to kiss, and they’re straining their backs and their hips will both hurt but it’s so, so worth it.

When they settle back into their chairs, John adds, “Eat your banana,” and gazes out towards the ocean. He doesn’t have to look over at Sherlock to see him pouting, but reaching for the fruit anyway. He doesn’t need to guess what his face looks like. He doesn’t need to hear the low, almost inaudible growl in his throat, even as he chews and swallows. He doesn’t need to see how he sinks further into his seat. He knows it’s all happening. Sherlock is delightfully predictable in his domestication. He still surprises John at times, with dinner or massages or whisking him away to shag out of the blue at four in the afternoon. And yet, with his age, John has come to know Sherlock’s tics and tells, and he delights in them even when he doesn’t watch them happen. He may ache, and he may need a cane he doesn’t remember and glasses he wants to forget, and he may need to go slowly, carefully, but with Sherlock John feels as if he’s aged like fine wine.

Their day is busier than John expects; their agenda is fuller than he remembers. But Sherlock remembers for him, and so does his pocket book, and when Sherlock touches his back in affection as he hunches over to tie his shoes, it doesn’t bother John that he’s forgotten. Neither does the pain in getting back up. They take the old-but-sturdy car into town. It was a gift from a former client. According to Sherlock, the case had to do with a litter of kittens, a storm-drain, and the Russian mob, and he wouldn’t waste his time explaining. Every time they drive in it, John wonders what the story is. This is no exception.

They go to the bank, and then the store, and then stop off at a chowder house for lunch. Redbeard, who they almost always take with them, sits loyally outside the establishment where they are known. They are known everywhere in the village, it seems; it’s a small town, with just over three thousand people living in that specific parish on the South Downs, not counting tourists, or “locusts,” as Sherlock refers to them. When they go out and about, they’re known as Sherlock and John, the former detective and doctor; or, they’re known as Sherlock and John, the finest honeymakers in the Downs (or even Sussex, some claim, to which Sherlock always looks haughty). Either way is fine with them. They’re not celebrities, nor are they ignored. It’s a comforting in-between that even Sherlock has come to enjoy.

They return home early in the afternoon and happily share a nap on their large sofa. They still spoon. John prefers sleeping on his back but with twenty-five years of practise under his belt he’s used to sleeping with his arms around Sherlock’s taller form, or being held by someone thin, and deceptively strong, and warm. Sherlock claims John is still as strong as he once was. John doubts this. Then again, he doubts much about himself. But not in dreams. His dreams are pleasant and peaceful, soundtracked to the sea. He won't remember them, and that's fine.

When they wake, they struggle to their feet and busy themselves with reading, and chatting, and pointless-but-fun bickering about putting up autumn-themed decor, and playing the violin, and listening to the violin, and almost forgetting the notes to the song, and encouraging the song to be played on anyway. They sit. They listen to the radio. Redbeard runs around the house until he exhausts himself and lands flat in front of the fireplace. Sherlock chuckles. John smiles. The aches are there, but he can ignore them.

When “You Make Me Feel So Young” comes on the radio, John hums along. His foot nudges Sherlock’s, and Sherlock pulls down the paper to look at John with a curious gaze. John gestures to the radio. Sherlock listens. He pulls a face, groans, rolls his eyes, and covers his face again, grumbling, “ _Boring_.” John breaks into a wide smile at his childishness. He can’t help the affection that suddenly courses through him, warming every inch of him. He pushes himself up with the help of his cane and, leaving it on his seat, approaches Sherlock, who refuses to look at him. Sherlock knows what John wants. John knows he knows. And he knows he’ll get his way.

And he does. Soon they are gently swaying to the song, and Sherlock is allowing John to lip-sing along with Sinatra; and Sherlock asks who even plays Sinatra on public radio, and John says he’s surprised Sherlock knows who Sinatra is; and they have a laugh, and they don’t ache; and they end up in bed, giggling and grinning and gasping and sighing at heated touches and arousal that takes a little longer than it used to; and it's a surprise shag at four in the afternoon and John feels like the luckiest man alive; and they go back downstairs because, as John says, they’ve already napped, but they’re considerably more flush-faced and nimble and John counts how many times Sherlock grabs his arse during the rest of the night (eight times - and he remembers).

Dinner is turkey sandwiches and salads. It’s simple, but it works. Sherlock complains his way through the salad but enjoys his perfectly-made sandwich and gives John a thankful kiss on the cheek. John wipes the crumbs away with a smile. They play footsie under the table. Sherlock is a master of it now. He wasn’t when they first started dating. John thinks he’s taught him well. Sherlock thinks John’s taught him well. They both agree on it and smile, and their hands link over the table.

They bathe together. There are two bathrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs. The downstairs bathroom has a shower that’s used perhaps twice a week. It has a walk-in door and hand rails, which is nice. They most often use the jetted bathtub upstairs, sharing the expansive space and using cups to wash one another’s hair. It can be hard to stand back up, and they have both slipped, but the tub is secure and there are plenty of safety measures to break falls. It’s worth the risk. The jets are heavenly on their tired muscles, and the water is warmer upstairs, and they have room to sit together or apart (but why would they be anything but close?). As they towel one another off, Sherlock mentions that if they were younger men, this is where he would suck John off, but he fears for his knees. John smiles and touches his cheek. Sherlock kisses his temple.

In the bedroom, Sherlock falls to his knees nevertheless to help John put socks on for the night. He massages his feet and kisses his legs. John touches Sherlock’s jaw and swears he’s falling more in love with him.

They get situated in bed, but don’t sleep just yet. John reads. Sherlock writes. They chat. They’re still playing footsie under the quilt and duvet and the sheet (and when winter comes, they will add a blanket into the layers of bed-dressing). Sherlock turns in first that night, and John follows shortly after, but not before he looks at how the trickles of moonlight through the window paint Sherlock’s side in deep blue, and how he breathes so obviously and beautifully, and how his hair falls in his eyes and how impossible it is to keep it out, and how when he touches Sherlock’s cheek Sherlock stirs and leans into the touch his sleeping self is vaguely aware of. He begins to imagine what the bed would look like without Sherlock in it, but it hurts his heart too much, so he focuses on the warmth of his husband in his arms, their battered bones lying close.

And he knows tomorrow will be much the same as it was today. There are no more cases for them, except for the occasional stolen ham and the more-frequent missing sheep. There are no flying leaps over hedges, no more dodging bullets, and no more whirlwind deductions guiding their hasty steps. They have settled and are happy. Old, but happy. And they will continue to be settled and old and happy until there is no longer a ‘they’, but he can’t think about that, no. So he doesn’t. He thinks about Redbeard, who sits in his own bed at the foot of theirs. He thinks about the bees, quietly murmuring in their hive. He thinks about the sea and how she’ll one day be just out of reach, and how Sherlock, being who he is, will find a way for them to see her again.

And his days may start slowly, carefully, achingly; and he may hate wearing his glasses and using his cane when he remembers; and he may fear slips on the stairs and forgetfulness and sound sleeping and every could-be change waiting to capture them. But the instant John sees Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock does something delightfully predictable, and he hears Sherlock call his name with aged fondness and a smile, John finds that he can face another day.

And he always smiles back, and he says Sherlock's name like it's a blessing, and all is well in the world.


End file.
